


Sleeping Bags and Candy Wrappers

by Vagabond



Series: Stories from the Cottage in South Downs [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is good with kids, Fluff, Historical sadness relating to kids, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), aziraphale is less good with kids, but a lot of fluff I swear, honestly this is just soft nonsense because i'm weak for crowley with children, let us view this through a review of history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-06 01:27:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20283118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vagabond/pseuds/Vagabond
Summary: Aziraphale has watched Crowley take to children all through the centuries - from the very first children, to the Them. The demon may never admit it, but it is all rathernice, even when it leaves Aziraphale with seeds of doubt about his own abilities to relate to kids.Fic inspired bythis amazing piece of art.





	Sleeping Bags and Candy Wrappers

**Author's Note:**

> I'm weak for Crowley hanging out with children, especially after seeing [this piece](https://aiwa-sensei.tumblr.com/post/186915314420/anthony-being-naturally-good-with-kids-is-so-soft) on tumblr. Some of the scenes are based on it, some are from my own mind, all of it is softness and fluff and Aziraphale wondering if something is wrong with him because he's never been as comfortable with kids as Crowley. 
> 
> I imagine this is set somewhere between [Rainstorms and Waves](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19734808) and [Seashells and Fingerpainting](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19969666). It can read as a standalone fic though, as can any of the series.

A child’s scream fills the air and Aziraphale immediately runs toward the sound. The world is still new, humanity still begetting and all that nonsense, and if there’s something he can do to protect the humans in their new life he’ll do it. His lack of a flaming sword proves that well enough.

He skids to a stop a few yards away and immediately ducks behind a tree. It appears, he realizes, that he may have misread the situation. Humans being so new, he’s still learning a bit about all of their odd little mannerisms. Thus far, screams have meant fear, or terror, or trouble. This scream appears to be a different sort. 

As he peers around the tree he realizes that screams can also be categorized as “delighted”, because there in a clearing is an auburn haired demon lifting and tossing small children about as their screeching fills the air around them. He watches, fascinated, as Crawly picks up a little girl and spins and _ tosses _ and then, at the very last possible moment, catches her in his arms before she touches the ground. 

He lets her down gently until her feet touch the dirt and the child beams, even as another pushes her out of the way insisting it is their turn. Crawly considers the boy with playful animation and exaggeration before he springs into movement and gives him the same treatment. 

Aziraphale watches this for a while until the children finally grow tired and their parents’ voices call through the trees to come home. For a split second a pair of golden eyes meet his, assuring him his presence has been noted, before Aziraphale flees. 

He unnecessarily frets about it for the next decade as he watches humanity continue to grow. 

**

The announcement of the flood startles him. Gabriel looks bored when he delivers the news. Aziraphale tries not to show an outward reaction, but the callousness of it all makes it difficult. 

“All of them?” Aziraphale asks and Gabriel’s lips curve into an expression that aspires to be a scowl, but seems to understand that a scowl doesn’t belong on an angel’s face. 

“So it seems,” Gabriel answers, “except for Noah and his ilk. They’re fine.” 

“That seems, er,” _ impractical_, _ cruel_, there were a number of adjectives that came to Aziraphale’s mind, “limited.” He grimaces. 

“I’m just the messenger. Make sure Noah and his make it onto the ark. I’ve got someone else taking care of the animals.” 

A strange thing, Aziraphale thinks, to save more animals than humans. It leaves him with a sensation deep in his belly that he thinks might be related to doubt. 

The sensation intensifies into a storm when he hears the disbelief in Crowley’s voice when he asks about whether the children will be spared. He’s reminded of a little girl’s bright smile and her delighted screeches as she was tossed up toward the heavens and safely returned. 

Rain begins to fall and Crowley disappears into the crowd. 

**

“He’s a wee thing, isn’t he?” 

Aziraphale startles, turning on his heel to glare into a pair of bright yellow eyes. 

“Nice look. The life of a shepherd suits you.” Crowley grins slyly. 

Aziraphale fusses with his tunic, his staff leaning against the wall of the stable. The rest of the shepherds he’d guided to the place of the Christ-child’s birth were inside marveling at the infant. 

“They’re itchy,” he admits, frowning at the fabric, willing it into something softer. It protests, but is then convinced to reweave itself into a higher quality cotton.

It only occurs to Aziraphale after a beat of silence that Crowley is a _ demon_. “Wait!” He points, jumping back and narrowing his eyes, “why are you here?” 

“Thought it was sort of important, birth of Her one and only son and all that. Star in the sky, wise men coming this way, et cetera.” Crowley waves his hand in the air and shrugs. “I didn’t want to miss it all.”

“And?” 

“And what?” Crowley’s brow creases, lips turning down. 

“You’re a _ demon_,” Aziraphale reminds him, in case he’s forgotten, “clearly you’re here to, er, I don’t know. Commit...wiles!” 

“Commit wiles,” Crowley replies dryly. 

“Yes. Or whatever it is you’re always up to. All that infernal nonsense. Knocking the world off kilter.” 

“Ah yes, that’s me. Good ol’ Crowley, always knocking the world off kilter.” His previous consternation shifts into something a bit more jovial. “It is a big day, Aziraphale. We should celebrate.” 

“As if I would celebrate with the likes of you,” Aziraphale sniffs and crosses his arms over his chest. “Trying to tempt me away from my duty, as if I don’t see it.” 

Crowley shrugs. “Suit yourself, angel.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, then tries to peek past Aziraphale through the door into the stables. 

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale steps into his line of vision and regrets it when something akin to hurt passes across Crowley’s face. 

“Am I not even allowed to see him?” 

“A demon, seeing the Christ-child? No, of course not. I’ll not let you begin your temptations so soon.” Aziraphale intends to guard the child like he failed to guard the tree, even though there’s a tiny seed of guilt lingering over the look on Crowley’s face. 

Crowley looks away, lips set into a momentary frown. Then he forces a smile onto his face and shrugs yet again, “you’re right, angel. You passed the test. Kept this wily demon away from your precious Christ-child. Nicely done. Maybe you’ll earn yourself a commendation for it. Anyway, I’ve got demon business to attend to, you know, somewhere that’s not here. Ciao.” 

Aziraphale stares at Crowley’s back as he leaves. He knows it should, but somehow this doesn’t feel like a victory for heaven. 

**

_ At least he got to meet him as an adult_, Aziraphale thinks, catching a glimpse of Crowley’s misty eyes as he stares up at the cross. The words ‘I’m sorry’ are on his lips but never make it out of his mouth. 

**

Aziraphale finds Crowley in France, under the guise of searching for crepes. He doesn’t let the demon see him, but he watches him nonetheless. Around him are a gaggle of street urchins dressed in revolutionary colors, giggling and skipping and chatting amicably with Crowley whose arms are laden with breads and pastries. 

He wants to call out to him, but doesn’t. It isn’t proper, after all, an angel calling after a demon. He shouldn’t even be there, shouldn’t have come looking, but he follows Crowley anyway. He’s come this far, what’s a little further? And if heaven asks about the miracle to took to get there, he’ll claim he was trying to stop an enemy agent from adding more fire to the flames of a revolution. 

Except Crowley isn’t doing that. He’s sitting on the stairs of a burned out house offering hunks of bread and pieces of pastries to the children gathered around him. When Aziraphale creeps closer he can hear what he’s saying and realizes he’s telling a _ story_.

“The serpent, well, he wasn’t quite sure what to do after the business with the apple. He went traipsing around the garden looking to put the pieces together and stumbled upon an angel.” 

The children gasp. 

“Mr. Crowley, angels and demons don’t like each other!” A boy pipes up. 

“Oh believe me, the serpent thought that too. But this angel was one he’d seen wandering about the place with a flaming sword.” A number of ‘ooooooo’s cascade across the group. “He didn’t have it then, though, standing up on the wall. No sign of it. The serpent asked about it of course. You always want to ask the whereabouts of a flaming sword.” 

A murmur of agreement goes through the small crowd. 

“Do you know what he said?” 

The children lean in and Crowley bends down. 

“He gave it away!” 

There are gasps. 

“Why would he go and do that?” There’s a little girl with dirt smudges on her face who takes an aggressive bite of her piece of bread. “Silly thing to do, giving away a sword like that!” She says through a mouthful. 

“A very silly thing indeed. I thought so too, until he told me why.” 

“Why?” The children ask it as one, clamoring for the answer. They appear to disregard the switch from third to first person. 

“He gave it to Adam and Eve who needed it more than he did,” Crowley whispers. “Which was the right thing to do, if you ask me. What’s an angel need a flaming sword for?” 

The conversation devolves into all the things an angel could use a flaming sword for as the children argue over whether or not he made the right decision. Aziraphale turns and walks away from the scene, turning the experience over in his mind. 

That’s when they grab him, of course. He barely makes a sound as they drag him to a dungeon. 

**

Aziraphale has seen a lot of war in his lifetime, and death, and destruction. It is the cost of a long life. But the second world war is particularly atrocious, so he jumps at the chance to pull one over on agents of evil. In this case, it is the Nazis. It is the least he can do (or really, the most, because he’s been given explicit instructions not to put any of it to a stop). 

It goes sideways as it often does when he’s involved and he wonders, briefly, if they’ll give him another body like this one when he shows up in heaven to request one. He _ likes _ this body, after all. It took a while to break it in and to get used to it and to start all over again with something new would be such an annoyance. 

Crowley saves the day. Or at least he saves Aziraphale, which is surprising given their last conversation ended in a long stint of avoiding each other. He’s grateful, and worried, and as they trudge through the debris of the church toward Crowley’s automobile he chances a glance and sees lines of concern in the demon’s face. 

“Crowley,” he holds the bag of books in one hand and reaches out to brush his fingers against the sleeve of Crowley’s shirt with the other, “I-”

Aziraphale falters, mind reeling as it replays the events of the last few moments and he processes the very real fact that he missed Crowley, all these years. His fingers curl in the tight fabric, fingernails scraping as he tries to find purchase to pull Crowley to a stop. 

“Please, stop for a moment,” he murmurs and watches Crowley’s shoulders heave with a sigh. The demon turns and regards him through dark lenses as Aziraphale’s fingers slide down to curl around Crowley’s wrist, holding loosely. 

Everything he wants to say dies on his lips when faced with the chance to say them. “Er - I, well,” his heart stutters in his chest, “I’ve missed you, dear boy. We left on such terrible terms last time and I-” 

He’s cut off by a dismissive wave of Crowley’s hand as he tugs his wrist away from Aziraphale’s grip. “It is fine, angel. Come on.” Crowley jerks his head in the direction of the car and begins walking, pointedly shoving his hands in his pockets in a way that makes Aziraphale’s heart sink. 

He follows with head his bowed, staring at the chunks of concrete and wood beneath his feet.

The automobile is nice, at least. The seats upholstered in a soft, distracting leather that he runs his fingertips over as he settles in. 

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Crowley says proudly, stroking a hand over the dashboard. “Better than horses, that’s for sure.” 

Aziraphale says nothing and stares out the window, listening to the distant howl of sirens and looking to the sky for signs of more destruction to come. 

“Ah.” Crowley says nothing more, starting the car and winding his way through the sometimes cluttered and broken streets toward Soho. Aziraphale is startled out of his moody silence when the car screeches to a halt. 

“Crowley?” He turns, but Crowley is already hopping out of the car and dashing across what remains of the street. Confused, Aziraphale gets out too and begins to follow him toward yet another bombed out building. 

“No, no, no,” he hears from Crowley and watches as the demon sinks to his knees among the rubble and begins digging. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale says it more sharply this time as he approaches, but he comes up short when from the rubble Crowley pulls a ragged looking doll. Aziraphale glances over the building again as the realization sinks in. This had been a home for children, for orphans. He remembers walking by it on occasion.

“They probably got to shelter,” Crowley insists quietly as he holds the doll in front of him. Aziraphale wishes desperately he could see Crowley’s eyes, but they’re hidden away behind sunglasses. “They wouldn’t have left the kids here. They would have known to get them out.” 

_ Not the kids_, Aziraphale remembers from a flood a long time ago. He doesn’t know what to say, but his chest hurts, right where a seed of doubt he’s neglected for years begins to sprout. 

**

Warlock stops wanting to sleep at night not too many months after celebrating his first birthday. No matter what is done by his parents or the staff, he wails and cries unceasingly until someone picks him up and holds him. Aziraphale doesn’t have too much to do with his direct upbringing, as that’s the task Crowley has taken on, but he does overhear a thing or two from Mrs. Dowling. 

“He won’t sleep,” she says despairingly one night, “even if I lie down with him he won’t sleep. He has to be up and moving. I’m losing my mind.” 

Aziraphale has no real business being that close to the open window, but he’s bored, and curious, and wants to know why Crowley hasn’t come over to the gardener’s cottage for a nightcap in days. 

“It is alright, dear,” Crowley says kindly, “I’ll take him. You go get some sleep.” 

“You’re a God-send. Thank you.” Aziraphale hears retreating footsteps, and further away the wails of a familiar child who is unhappy about being in his crib. 

At least it explains where Crowley’s been the last few nights. A bit disappointed, Aziraphale retreats to his cottage to read a book. It is late when he hears a soft, familiar voice outside his open window. He creeps over to it and peers out to see Crowley standing about fifteen feet away in the middle of the lawn, holding Warlock who is nothing but a bundle against his shoulder. 

“And you see that one, there,” Crowley points to the sky, tilting his head to whisper in the baby’s ear, “well, I hung that one as a bit of a joke. One day it is going to supernova and it’ll be bright pink! Nothing but pink. I stuck a few of those up there, a little bit of odd color in the night sky. Future celestial fireworks.” 

Aziraphale listens as Crowley continues to describe the stars he helped put into the sky, leaning against his open window with his forehead against the sill. There’s something calming in the demon’s voice, a soft whimsy that compels him to close his eyes and imagine being among the stars, or floating through the dust of meteors. 

He’s drawn from his daze when Warlock fusses. Crowley hushes him. 

“Shh, now, little one,” he murmurs and Aziraphale watches him brush a kiss to the crown of the baby’s head. “No fussing. Have I ever told you about meteor showers?” 

Aziraphale quietly pulls a chair as close to the window as he can get and listens as Crowley tells stories of the night sky until the sun comes up. 

**

Aziraphale is on his knees in the garden tugging at a rather stubborn weed when he hears a wail from somewhere near the rose bushes. 

“I’m not through with you,” he threatens, pointing at the weed, “I’m coming for you and your blasted roots.” The weed appears unperturbed. Aziraphale stands and brushes off his knees, then his hands, before he makes his way toward the sound. 

Crowley beats him there. He always does. It surprised him when Crowley chose to be the nanny instead of the gardener, since he was well aware of how much Crowley enjoyed berating plants, but now it makes sense. Despite Crowley’s demonic agenda, and their joint plan as part of The Arrangement to try and avert the apocalypse, it is obvious he _ likes _ the boy. 

Warlock is three, just a toddler trying to figure out running, and it appears today’s lesson involves the unforgiving nature of gravity. He’s done quite a number on his knee, a bloodied streak of skin stark against his pale complexion. 

“There now,” he hears Crowley say, dressed as always in his skirt and smart top. “Up we go. We’ll get that seen to inside and you’ll be back to running around in no time.” 

“It hurts!” Warlock wails pathetically as he wraps his arms around Crowley’s neck and clings, burying his little chubby face into his neck. 

“You’ll be alright,” Crowley assures him calmly as he stands and picks Warlock up, holding him close. “Come on now.” 

They disappear inside and Aziraphale returns to his gardening, choosing less stubborn weeds to pull. The one he abandoned sways smugly in the breeze.

As he makes his way around the back end of the garden, he's surprised to find Crowley sitting up against a tree, Warlock cradled against his chest. The toddler appears to be asleep, thumb in his mouth as the wind rustles his hair. It is quite the scene, Aziraphale thinks, Crowley’s head tilted back against the trunk of the tree. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers as he approaches, mindful of the child. Crowley lifts his head and peers up, eyes obscured by his glasses. 

“Yes, Aziraphale? What can I do for you?” 

Aziraphale hesitates for a moment as he glances around the garden before motioning to a spot on the ground beside them. 

“Might I join you?” 

Crowley smiles. “You might.” 

That smile sends a jolt of something warm through Aziraphale’s chest as he titters in place before taking a seat beside Crowley on the grass. 

“How is the antichrist’s knee?” Aziraphale glances at the sleeping child whose face is lax in sleep, never betraying his sinister lineage. 

“It’ll heal,” Crowley replies. 

Aziraphale listens to the distant sound of wind chimes as he considers the child, then gazes up at the sky and thinks of heaven. “Do you think our plan will work?” 

“It has to.” 

“Does it?” 

Crowley shrugs. “If it doesn’t, I suppose it won’t really matter anyway.” 

_ It will_, Aziraphale thinks as he wonders what he’ll do when the end of the world comes. _ I won’t let them separate us _. He does not give voice to his thoughts. Instead, he enjoys the warm breeze and leans his shoulder against Crowley who doesn’t protest. 

They’ve got time, and Crowley’s right. This plan has to work. 

**

The living room of the cottage in South Downs is littered with sleeping bags, the children they belong to out in the garden with Crowley doing God-only-knows what. 

Aziraphale sighs, sipping his cocoa and surveying the mess. From his vantage point in the kitchen he can spy candy wrappers and toys strewn between the sleeping bags. What he can’t tell is what belongs to Dog and what belongs to the Them. 

He sets his cocoa down and tidies up with a snap, the wrappers obediently disappearing into the waste and the toys joining together in a single pile in the corner. A bit of tension in his shoulders eases. He gives the sleeping bags a stern look but leaves them as they are. 

A delighted squeal catches his attention and he makes his way to the back door that overlooks the back garden, a sprawling field of uneven grass edged with garden beds and trees. Crowley’s red hair glows in the afternoon sun as he takes Wensleydale by the wrists and begins to spin him about. 

Aziraphale winces, trying to imagine such a thing himself, but supposes it is different when you’re nearly 12 years old. It is all fearlessness and defying gravity at that age, as evident by the boy’s delighted laughter even as Brian cries out and says he thinks it is his turn now. 

Adam stands near Pepper and watches with a thoughtful look on his face that exceeds his young years on earth. His eyes dart to and fro trying to follow his friend’s spinning movement. Once Wensleydale’s feet return to the ground, Aziraphale glances at Crowley and watches him stumble a bit from the dizziness. He’s grinning, though, a big wide thing, his eyes uncovered and shining as Brian shoulders Wensleydale out of the way and insists it is his turn next. 

“What about a turn for you, angel?” Crowley calls jokingly across the lawn. 

“I don’t think so, my dear,” Aziraphale calls back, before Brian can protest about proper turn etiquette. “These feet prefer the ground these days.” 

“Suit yourself.” Crowley shrugs and grabs hold of Brian’s wrists. “Ready?” 

They begin the next round of spinning as Adam carefully navigates around it and approaches Aziraphale, Dog trotting at his heels. 

“Hello, Adam,” Aziraphale greets, grateful that Dog resists the urge he has to jump up on Aziraphale’s shin. Instead, the former hell hound sits obediently at his master’s feet. 

“Hullo, Mr. Fell.” Adam sticks his hands in his pockets and looks back out at the garden and his friends. 

In times like these, Aziraphale wishes desperately he had the same knack for children as Crowley. He’s always prepared with a story or a game, but Aziraphale struggles to even hold up a conversation. It is made doubly awkward by the fact that this is the antichrist, or former antichrist. What does one say to him? ‘Thanks for not ending the world, again?’

“S’okay,” Adam says out of the blue and Aziraphale glances at him in confusion. 

“What is?” 

Adam looks at him and offers a tiny smile before his attention returns to his friends. Aziraphale reaches over and ruffles his hair instinctively. Adam’s smile widens. 

“Adam!” Pepper calls sharply from the garden, “it is your turn if you want it.” 

“I’ll be right there.” Adam gives Aziraphale a final look before he jogs back over to the Them, and Crowley, who looks past him to meet Aziraphale’s gaze. 

Aziraphale reflexively smiles and gives a little wave. Crowley returns it before he grabs onto Adam’s wrists and begins the fun all over again. 

Later that evening, after the children are picked up by their respective parents and their things are cleared out of the living room, Aziraphale sits on the couch sipping a glass of wine. He peers out across the floor previously littered with sleeping bags and is surprised to find he misses them already. It inspires him to take a long drink. 

“That seems ominous,” Crowley says as he returns to the living room from the kitchen, holding his own glass of wine, catching Aziraphale in the act of what someone less refined might refer to as ‘chugging’. “Penny for your thoughts, angel?” 

Crowley sits down on the couch beside him, one leg bent and curled beneath him so he can turn his body toward Aziraphale. In the dim lamp light, cheeks rosy from being out in the sun, Aziraphale can’t help but admire him. He’s beautiful. 

“Ah, nothing important.” Aziraphale sighs and sets aside his glass. Crowley waits, patiently. “I dare say I miss them.” 

“The kids?” Crowley’s brow crinkles. “I miss them too, the little hellions.” 

Aziraphale fusses with the hem of his waistcoat. 

“Aziraphale,” there’s a clink as Crowley sets aside his wine glass and scoots forward, hands coming to rest on Aziraphale’s knees as he leans in and tilts his head. He’s contorting his body in an utterly serpentine way in order to make eye contact that Aziraphale continues to avoid. “Why are you acting weird about it?” 

“Am I?” Aziraphale asks quietly as he finally meets Crowley’s gaze. “Oh I suppose I am. I just, I wish I were as good with them as you are!” He tries to reach for his wine but Crowley catches his hand and pulls it back down to his lap. 

“Angel.” Crowley huffs and Aziraphale feels it against his cheek. “You’re perfectly good with them.” 

“They love you, Crowley. They always have. All through the centuries you’ve always been so good with all of them and here I am, an angel who let so many of them die, who couldn’t ever figure out what to say to Warlock outside of what was needed for The Arrangement, who doesn’t even know how to talk to Adam. I’m miserable at it -” and he’s immediately cut off by the soft press of Crowley’s lips to his own. 

He sighs against them, and Crowley cups his cheek with one hand and pulls back only to press forward again for another kiss. 

“You are not to blame.” Crowley brushes their foreheads together, sliding into Aziraphale’s lap to lean in and push him back against the couch cushions. Aziraphale allows his hands to rest on Crowley’s hips, fingers dipping beneath the hem of his shirt to brush against soft skin. 

“There’s so many moments where you wanted to save them and I should have helped,” Aziraphale whispers. Crowley’s fingertips brush through his hair and the sensation it brings is like a million little electrical currents running straight down his spine. He tries to press into the touches and Crowley hums in response, tightening his fingers in Aziraphale’s hair and tugging gently. 

“You’re not to blame,” Crowley repeats, “for any of it. You’ve told me that very same thing a few times over the millennia. Is it so hard to believe it applies to you, too?” 

“I should have rebelled sooner.” Aziraphale closes his eyes as Crowley tugs at his curls again. It sends a cascade of shivers down his back. 

“Hush.” Crowley kisses his nose, his forehead, his cheeks. “We saved the world, Aziraphale. We helped pave a way for all the kids that are here now, and all the kids who will eventually come into being. We’ve done something good.” 

They rest together in the quiet, the soft pitter patter of rain starting up outside. 

“It is because you’re the nice one,” Aziraphale insists after a half hour of quiet, fingertips tracing imaginary patterns along Crowley’s sides. 

“Angel,” Crowley growls in warning, “I’m not nice.” 

“You are and it is _ dreadful_, my dear.” Aziraphale sighs dramatically, a bit of his melancholy melting away. 

“Ugh, we were having a nice moment and you’ve gone and ruined it.” Crowley teases, playfully nipping Aziraphale’s earlobe. He shivers in response, tilting his head in the opposite direction to give Crowley more space to work. 

“Want something, angel?” He whispers into his ear, teeth barely grazing the shell of his ear. 

“You, always, you _nice _ and lovely thing.” 

The sound of absolute annoyance Crowley makes brings a smile to Aziraphale’s face as the demon slides off of his lap and buries his face in the couch. 

“You’re the worst!” Crowley cries out, though it is muffled against the cushions. 

Aziraphale pats his rear fondly. “And you’re the best, my love. With the children and with me.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Have a prompt or something you'd like to see written in this series? Either drop a comment or hit me up at [Waffleironbiddingwar on Tumblr.](https://waffleironbiddingwar.tumblr.com)
> 
> ...and if anyone knows of a Good Omens discord, hit me up because I'm dying to talk more about these ineffable idiots.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Sleeping Bags and Candy Wrappers [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21639805) by [senseofenterprise (the_boleyn_treatment)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_boleyn_treatment/pseuds/senseofenterprise)


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